


The Road to Morocco Affair

by LeetheT



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:35:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Road to Morocco Affair

_In homage to Bing and Bob. If you find anything funny in this, it’s probably directly stolen from the film. It’ll help if you’ve seen it, plus it’s worth seeing for its own sake._

_Content: Mild slash. And if there exists such a thing as Bing/Bob slash,  for the sake of my sanity spare me knowledge of it._

 

Hand shading his eyes, Illya Kuryakin turned from scanning the flat blue horizon and squinted at his partner, who’d been gazing at him from across the life raft in silence for entirely too long.

“Napoleon, what are you doing?”

Napoleon Solo blinked, pasted a smile on his face. “Wondering how long you’d last me, of course.”

“What?”

Napoleon leaned over, squeezed his calf, then his thigh. “Well, there’s not much meat on you...”

Illya jerked his leg away. “Very funny. It isn’t as if it’s my fault we’re here.”

Napoleon looked about them; they and their raft remained alone on a blessedly calm sea, save for the few pieces of debris from the ship that had blown up two hours before.

“Well, who was it that THRUSH idiot was shooting at when he hit the fuel tanks?”

Illya shaded his eyes, scowling at his partner. “So you’re saying it is my fault, because he missed me? I don’t get credit for being indirectly responsible for the demise of 20 THRUSH agents and one enemy vessel?”

“Hey—” Napoleon bent over the side abruptly, fishing out a battered straw hat. He shook the excess sea water from it and looked speculatively at his partner.

Illya squinted at the hat, at his partner, at the sun. “You’re the one who says I burn easily.”

Napoleon dug in a pocket. “Let’s flip for it.” He tossed the coin into the air. “What’s the year?”

“Tai—” Illya stopped, glaring at his partner. As the coin dropped into Napoleon’s hand he said, “Nineteen fifty four.”

Napoleon peered at the coin. His eyes widened, slid sidelong to Illya.

“Hmm. Smart Russian.” He handed the beat-up straw hat to the Russian, muttering under his breath. Illya yanked the hat onto his head with a triumphant grin.

Napoleon sighed. “Well, we shouldn’t be too far from shore. Maybe we should paddle a bit when the sun goes down.” He pulled out his communicator, but, as it had since the explosion that morning, it gave him nothing but static. The ship had only been about 20 nautical miles from Morocco when she’d gone down.

Illya pulled out a pocket compass, peered at it, and pointed. “That way.”

~*~*~

When dusk came, bringing much more tolerable temperatures, they paddled until they saw land — a flat tan line of desert that faded to blackness as night fell. They let the waves carry them in, pulling the raft into the relative shelter of one scraggly date tree and a couple of bushes. They retrieved their tattered jackets from the raft and donned them against the chill of the desert night and, exhausted, slept atop the raft.

~*~*~

At dawn they awoke, cold, stiff, and snuggled together.

Warm brown eyes looked into cool blue ones, then crinkled.

“Two on a raft, sunny side up.” He kissed his partner on the nose.

“Napoleon!” Illya snorted, shoved him away and sat up.

Grinning, Napoleon said, “Is that a sunburn, or are you actually blushing?”

Illya muttered, “What’s got into you?”

Napoleon chuckled — and coughed. His throat was very dry, and he was extremely thirsty. “Nothing, for far too long.” He rose, stretched. “Let’s look around, see if we can find a coconut or something.”

They reconnoitred.

The land rose away from the beach in waves of blank sand. A little way inland they came across a road, barely distinguishable from the sand that surrounded it. It seemed to run along the coastline. The agents stopped on the road and Napoleon drew out the tiny homing device they’d carried with them since leaving Paris two weeks before.

He switched it on and it pointed south. “Karameesh and the microfilm are that way.” He gestured with the little metal box.

Illya looked west and saw nothing but flat tan desert. He looked east, and saw what appeared to be a group of trees. “Water,” he suggested, pointing.

“Well, that is a more urgent concern,” Napoleon agreed, putting the tracer away. “But they could’ve found an easier way to get us here.”

He chuckled to himself and ignored the look Illya gave him.

 

The trees surrounded an oasis. There were no people, but there was a camel, standing sleepily in the shade of the scraggly trees. It watched uninterested as the agents drank their fill of the somewhat muddy water.

“One lump or two?” Napoleon said.

“The owner must be around here somewhere,” Illya said. “It’s got a halter and reins.”

“Then let’s hop a ride to Karameesh.” Napoleon rubbed his hands together and advanced on the camel, which eyed the two men warily but didn’t seem inclined to flee.

Illya crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you ever ridden a camel?”

“No, but it beats walking.” He grinned again, mysteriously. “Beats the bus.”

“I think the sun’s getting to you,” Illya said. Napoleon stopped.

“Are you going to help me catch this kangaroo or not?”

The Russian sighed, dusted off his hands, and joined his partner. The camel proved  docile. They got it down on its knees, clambered aboard, and pointed it in the direction of the city of Karameesh.

“I hope we don’t run out of gas,” Illya remarked.

“I got her carburetor cut down to nothin’,” Napoleon replied gleefully.

~*~*~

By afternoon Napoleon, sunburnt, aching all over, had come to a conclusion: Camels were better than walking like being shot once was better than being shot twice.

His partner was clearly in no better mood. “What are you humming? It’s driving me crazy.”

“That’s no drive, tovarish, it’s a short putt.” Napoleon glanced back at his partner, eyes narrowed against the sun. “For your information, we’re off on the Road to Morocco.”

“That’s not information to me, Napoleon. And after hours of your impromptu entertainment, I could hum every note of the inane tune you obviously have seared into your synapses. Would you mind identifying it?”

“I did. Your knowledge of popular culture is appalling.”

“So is your ability to carry a tune. What are you humming?”

The camel topped a rise, paused — the two tired agents swayed on her back — then began trotting down the hill, having seen what her passengers saw: a city.

“Behold Karameesh,” Napoleon said. He turned on the tracking device, which beeped energetically. “And the microfilm is still there, somewhere.”

“Did our man narrow it down for us, or are we going to have to search the whole city?” Illya  eyed the ancient walled city unenthusiastically.

“He said it was in the palace,” Napoleon said. “Hidden. He said there was a THRUSH agent, masquerading as a local. He also said the name Gaspar. He didn’t manage to say exactly where he hid the microfilm before he was ... ah ... cut off.”

“Permanently?” Illya asked.

“That would appear to be the case,” Napoleon said.

~*~*~

They left the camel at the gate and walked into the busy, narrow streets of Karameesh. The curious looks they got made it clear how few westerners visited the ancient place.

“I think we need some more appropriate attire,” Napoleon said, fingering his very battered suit as they entered the clamorous market square of the city.

“And food,” Illya added, gazing longingly at the vendors lining the road, their carts piled high with breads and fruits and vegetables. The scent of spices and fresh-baked bread warred with the stink of camel dung and other unsavory deposits.

Napoleon dug into his pockets. “All I’ve got is the quarter I flipped.”

Illya shook his head. “My wallet went down with the ship too.”

“At least our communicators and guns didn’t,” Napoleon said.

“Are you suggesting we rob somebody?” Illya replied, brow arched.

Napoleon scanned the marketplace. “Well, not at gunpoint, no...” He waved away a persistent vendor who was shoving some sort of spiced nutbread in his face. “No thanks, we ate four days ago.”

He fingered an intricately embroidered tapestry under the watchful glare of the shopkeeper, muttered, “If that guy wasn’t looking, I’d eat a rug.”

Illya said, absently, “Plain?”

Napoleon stopped, stared at the Russian. “What’d you say?”

Illya touched his arm, “Napoleon. Over there.”

“Ah. A haberdashery.” They examined the vicinity of the shop whose counter boasted burnooses and turbans and the like. There was a wooden overhang at the front, a kind of rough portico, with clothing draped over its support beams.

“If you could generate a distraction,” Illya said, “I could climb up there and take what we need without the shopkeeper seeing me.”

“A distraction?” Napoleon echoed dubiously.

At that moment gunfire erupted, some distance away, followed by shouts, screams, and the clatter of hoofbeats.

“Ta-da,” Napoleon said, with the appropriate gesture.

Illya rolled his eyes. “Well done.”

The people in the streets scattered to the sides. Illya took advantage of the melee to scramble up a stone wall, swinging nimbly onto the roof of the shop and down onto its wooden overhang, from which he deftly collected armsful of flowing local attire. Napoleon stood to the side, one eye on the shopkeeper, whose attention, like nearly everyone else’s, was on the road.

A band of horsemen in black and white — with a tall man in all-white at their head — galloped up the street, shouting and firing their rifles into the air, paying no heed to whether the crowds were out of their way as they pounded their way past, at a dangerous pace on the curving road, toward the palace, on a slight eminence at one end of the city.

Napoleon asked the shopkeeper:

“Who is that headstrong impetuous boy?”

The shopkeeper stared at him long enough for Napoleon to realize he probably didn’t speak English, then said what sounded like, “Mullay Kassim.”

Napoleon stared at the palace thoughtfully. If their information was correct the microfilm was hidden somewhere in there.

He turned at a tug on his sleeve and followed his partner into a cool, quiet side street, where they quickly divested themselves of their western attire and donned loose flowing pants and shirts, embroidered belts and vests — all sort of one size fits all, which required some adjustments. They transferred weapons and other devices to various pockets in their new clothes, but kept their own shoes for comfort’s sake.

Illya tucked their old clothes into a dust bin while Napoleon regarded the turbans with some puzzlement. He picked one up as if it were a dead snake.

Illya, seeing this, grinned. “You mean to say there are some forms of sartorial splendour with which you are not familiar?”

Napoleon watched a quartet of burly native bearers carrying a curtained palanquin along the street. “Just give me a hand with it, will you? Remember, the quarter in my pocket may be all that stands between us and starvation.”

Still smiling, Illya took the turban out of Napoleon’s hands. “Sit on that crate.”

Napoleon obliged and Illya quickly wrapped the cloth around his partner’s head, stepping back to examine it. He tilted his head, a scowl touching his brow.

“What?” Napoleon fingered the turban, wishing he had a mirror. The palanquin, curtains closed tight, was just opposite them. He briefly wondered what lovely local lady was inside.

“Nothing,” Illya said thoughtfully. “You look ... it suits you.”

Napoleon gave him an even more dubious look.  The palanquinstopped, no more than a foot from the Russian’s back, and Napoleon rose, bowing slightly. Illya twisted round to look at it.

A lovely bejeweled female arm extended from the curtain. Elegant fingers touched the Russian’s head. Though his eyes widened, he didn’t move. The bearers paid no attention as those fingers stroked through Illya’s hair for a moment, trailed along his temple, traced his cheekbone, and gently tilted up his chin, then withdrew. Though no sound came from the curtained seat, the bearers moved on.

Both agents watched the palanquindisappear into the marketplace.

Napoleon glanced at his bemused partner, wondering if he could get away with that. “It’s a strange country,” he said, whisking the image from his mind.

Illya opined, “Not too strange.”

“She could at least have offered you a sandwich.” Napoleon got up, pulled a long capelike scarf around his shoulders, and handed Illya his own turban. The Russian took it, wrapped it expertly around his head, and draped his own scarf about him.

“Can you say ‘will work for food’ in Arabic?” Napoleon asked, pulling his partner back into the marketplace. “Come on. We need to figure out a way to get into the palace.”

~*~*~

Some time later a well-fed greybeard in very fine clothes approached them as they were ogling the oranges and almonds at a corner stand.

“American?” he said. Both men immediately backed away, hands inching toward their guns. In Arabic Illya said, “What makes you think that?”

In heavily accented English the man said, “I have a business proposition for you.” He addressed Napoleon, though his eyes darted to Illya as he spoke.

Napoleon shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“May I speak with you privately?” the man said. Napoleon and Illya exchanged a glance, silent request and permission. Napoleon took the man’s arm and led him out of hearing range.

Illya watched them. The man spoke, and Napoleon looked slightly surprised. The man spoke again. Napoleon asked a question. The man actually appeared embarrassed, but answered. Napoleon scowled thoughtfully, asked another question. The man said something very brief. Napoleon snorted, as if he’d been offered a dollar for a diamond. At that Illya’s suspicions became focused.

The man spoke again, brows raised. Napoleon crossed his arms. The man spoke again. Napoleon glanced at his partner, speculatively, while Illya resisted the urge to shout, “Not a penny less than a million!”

Finally Napoleon nodded. To Illya’s surprise, no money changed hands. The man shook Napoleon’s hand, said something else, pointed across the street, and disappeared. Napoleon returned to his partner.

“COD?” Illya said, brow raised. Napoleon took his arm.

“Come on. Let’s talk over a bowl of whatever passes for soup in this country.”

The shop across the street proved to be a restaurant. Napoleon let Illya order, telling him not to worry about the money. After their order had been taken, and they’d been supplied with cups of sweet tea, Illya said:

“Are 30 pieces of silver going to be enough for this meal?”

Napoleon’s smile was so affectionate it almost disarmed Illya’s annoyance. “Now, you know I could never put a price on you.”

“How touching. Fortunately your new friend did that for you.” Illya took a sip of the too-sweet tea, grimaced. “You don’t own me, you know.”

“Well, no, no — not now. He does.” Napoleon grinned.

The Russian sighed. “You’ll notice I won’t be so crass as to ask how much I went for, but I do insist on knowing what you sold me into.”

The grin widened. “I’ve ... ah ... rented you into involuntary servitude.”

“Rented?”

“Well you didn’t think I was going to let him keep you?” Napoleon faked affront, added, “At the palace.”

Illya considered this. “Ah. I see.”

“Yes. It gets us into the palace grounds ... that is, it gets you into the palace grounds, then you get me into the palace grounds. We find the microfilm, we depart.”

“You always make it sound so easy,” Illya groused. “Exactly what sort of servitude?”

Napoleon shrugged. “Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to dicker too much. Might’ve queered the deal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’ll pick you up here after you’ve had a decent meal.” He slid the tracer out of a deep pocket in his trousers and handed it to his partner. “Let’s see if they have any jellied turtle eggs.”

“You’ve definitely been in the sun too long,” Illya said, pocketing the tiny device.

~*~*~

The well-fed fellow returned half an hour later with two musclemen, counted out what Illya considered to be a paltry 10,000 _dirhami_ ,  and strolled off with Napoleon’s partner framed between two men half again his size.

Napoleon paid the check and counted the money, ostentatiously ignoring his departing partner — until they were out of sight. Then he shoved the wad of clothlike bills into a pocket and trotted after them.

~*~*~

As soon as they’d rounded a corner out of Napoleon’s view, the man waved the guards away and beckoned Illya to walk beside him. He introduced himself as Fasi.

“Illya Kuryakin.”

“That is an unusual American name, is it not?” Fasi asked in Arabic.

“It would be, yes.” Illya didn’t explain further, and Fasi shrugged, beginning a lengthy ode to the joys of living in the palace. Illya thought this enumeration of wine women and song rather inappropriate to offer to a slave, but he listened attentively. He learned, to some surprise, that there was a princess, called Shalmar, who was to marry the desert sheikh Mullay Kassim, in a week. He learned she was as beautiful as the full moon on a summer night, and that the sheikh, the deadliest fighter and strongest warlord in the region, was mad about her. He learned that her handmaidens were the loveliest girls in the desert, and that she was up to her silken elbows in gold and gems. What this had to do with whatever ditch he would end up digging, he didn’t know. He simply nodded and murmured meaningless noises of appreciation until they reached the tall brass-decorated gates of the palace.

The guards let them in. Illya noted that there were two, armed with swords, and that the gates were not locked.

Inside, Fasi dismissed their burly escort, and he and Illya climbed a path that rose gently through lush terraced gardens filled with singing birds, drooping trees and tinkling fountains. Illya shook his head as he looked around; one could get used to this.

They entered the palace, white and tall and graceful, with marble floors and many carven arches. They passed well-dressed men and women who paid little heed to them. Fasi led Illya along a number of broad airy corridors and up a wide marble staircase.

Fasi smiled at Illya and opened a carven wooden door, ushering him inside. Within was a deep pool of steaming water, flanked by two middle-aged men, a tough-looking old woman, and a young girl holding a tray stacked with jars. A table to the side was piled high with towels; one window looked out over the city and to the desert beyond. A clean, sharp pine scent filled the air.

At this point, deeply puzzled, Illya asked: “Exactly what sort of work am I supposed to do here? A bath attendant?”

“Oh, no,” Fasi said, appalled. “They are here to serve you. Please enjoy your bath and massage, and I will return with fresh clothing for you.”

Again Illya opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Fasi bowed slightly and was gone. The bath attendants surrounded him. He figured the old lady was the masseuse — she had the arms for it. The men began to divest him of his clothes, with professional speed and detachment. Illya considered resisting, but figured he could use the bath and a massage. The only thing he did was forestall the men and step behind a screen to disrobe, piling the clothes over his gun and communicator, and the tracer.

Then, gritting his teeth — it had been a while since he’d been in a coeducational bathing situation — he stepped from behind the screen and allowed the bath attendants to have their way with him.

~*~*~

Napoleon watched the gates close behind his partner and immediately began searching for some convenient roost where he could watch and await word. He explored the neighboring streets and alleys and finally came upon a stairway that led to the roof of a shop. From there he could just see over the walls of the palace. He made himself as comfortable as he could, sent a fervent good wish that his partner wouldn’t be subjected to any labor that was too arduous, and settled down to wait.

~*~*~

Fasi returned to find a scrubbed and rubbed Russian resting comfortably on the massage table by the window, wearing a light cotton robe. Illya got up, popping behind the screen to collect his gear and tuck it under the robe.

Fasi led Illya to another small room and gave him fresh clothing — the loose trousers and shirt, slippers, vest and belt, embroidered, very finely made. Again Illya ducked behind a convenient modesty screen.

“No turban?” Illya asked as he dressed, carefully tucking his toys away.

When he came out Fasi smiled. “No. The princess does not wish you to cover your hair.”

“The princess?” Illya echoed. “What exactly is my function here, Fasi?”

“Her highness will tell you,” Fasi said. “Please, come with me.”

“Can’t you give me a hint?” Illya asked.

Fasi smiled. “It may be hard labor, but I think you will not find it too ... odious.”

He was led by a lengthy route to an airy chamber, draped with silken hangings; one side was nothing but vast windows that overlooked the gardens. Four large sternfaced men stood around the room, arms crossed, naked sabers at their waists.

A girl strummed a lutelike instrument as she sat on a cushion at the foot of a large couch. On the couch sat another girl, darkly beautiful, with eyes that glittered as they focused on Fasi and Illya’s approach.

They approached to within five feet of the couch. The girl on the cushion — also lovely, with dark-red hair and green eyes that rested unreadably on the newcomers — stopped strumming.

Fasi bowed. Illya considered following suit, decided against it.

“I have brought him, princess, as you commanded.”

“You have done well, Fasi,” she said, her voice honeyed. “You may go.”

Fasi bowed again, gave Illya a sharp, mysterious look, and departed.

“Welcome,” the princess said, in perfectly good English. “I am Shalmar.”

“How do you do,” Illya said.

“What is your name?”

“Illya Kuryakin.”

She scowled. “That is not an American name. That is a Russian name.”

“My apologies,” he said.

“Are you not an American?”

Illya considered. He could say several things, all of them equally true (or untrue); it was a matter of which one would benefit him most.

“I live in America,” he said, and her beaming smile returned

“It is good. For a moment I was afraid—” she stopped herself, resting her midnight eyes on him. “I saw you in the marketplace, with your hair like gold and your eyes like a summer sky. I knew you were the one.”

“The one?”

“The one. You belong to me now.”

“Uh, princess, if you don’t mind my asking...now you’ve bought me, what do you intend to do with me?”

She looked up, around the room, and said rather more loudly than was necessary, “You will ... entertain me.”

“Entertain?” he echoed, befuddled.

“It will be your duty to give me ...” she leaned forward... “pleasure.”

“Oh. I see.” Illya shook his head slowly. “Boy, have you got the wrong spy.”

The princess dismissed the guards, but not the girl at her side. Then she waved Illya closer, patting the couch. He sat down beside her.

“Mihirmah, play,” Shalmar said, and the girl began to strum again. Shalmar regarded Illya with an appreciation more frank than he was accustomed to from most women, which was saying something.

“Tell me, Illya Kuryakin, where you come from, do you have a wife?”

“Does it matter?” he asked. She shrugged.

“If you do not know...” She leaned against his shoulder, stroked his chin. “The royal house of Karameesh is ancient and fabulously wealthy. Many men would willingly die to marry a princess of Karameesh.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”

She drew back a little. “Do you not find me ... pleasing?”

“Very,” he said.

That magnet drew her close once more. She breathed into his ear:

“First, we will dine. Then ...” Her lips brushed his cheek. “...we will discuss this further.”

Illya realized the girl Mihirmah was watching him intently. She shook her head once, then lowered her eyes, still strumming.

The princess clapped for service, and got it.

~*~*~

At sunset Napoleon paced on the mudstone roof, hungry, thirsty, stiff and anxious. He hoped his partner’s first day of slavery hadn’t gone too badly; he was impatient to hear from him, not just so he could find a way into the palace himself, but to be sure Illya was all right.

the wee hours Illya slipped out of the princess’ chambers. He moved stealthily through the darkened antechamber — starting when a small shadow detached itself from an alcove.

He had his hand on his gun when he recognized Mihirmah, the princess’ most trusted handmaiden. She touched a finger to his lips and drew him into the alcove.

“Are you planning to flee?” she said in English — the first words he’d heard her speak.

“Not at this moment,” he said.

Her eyes locked on his. “The princess is very rich, and very lovely.”

He waited.

“She told me about seeing you in the marketplace. She said she was struck to the heart by your beauty.”

“What’s your point?”

“There is danger here for you.” She clutched his sleeve.

“Ah. Now we’re back on familiar ground. What sort of danger?”

“The princess is betrothed to Mullay Kassim. He is a deadly fighter. If he learns she has been dallying with you, he will kill you.”

Illya muttered, “Mr. Waverly will never believe this reversal.”

“There is more,” she went on. “The princess does not wish to marry Kassim. She longs to flee to America.”

“Ah, I see.” He shook his head. “I might have known she wasn’t really captivated by my charms in the marketplace. And she expects me to take her to America?”

Mihirmah nodded earnestly. “Will you do it?”

Illya gently removed her hand from his arm. “We can talk about this later. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Puzzled, she watched him go.

~*~*~

He opened the door to the corridor and stopped, startled to see two armed guards flanking him, but they ignored him. He walked past them, ready to defend himself. Nothing. Presumably he was now an honored guest. He headed for the gardens.

The moon, nearly full, bathed the gardens in silver light and shadow; the flowers’ scents mingled in the moist cool air; insects and a few night birds chittered softly.

He stopped by the fountain, in the hope the waterfall would disguise the noise, and pulled out the tracer. It indicated the microfilm was within a few hundred yards of his location, and up a few hundred feet. He ran his eye up the palace, to the five minarets. Maybe it was in one of those. He’d have to triangulate.

He relocated a few times, seeing several guards — none of whom made any move to trouble him — and came to the conclusion that the microfilm was somewhere in the southernmost tower of the palace. Then he returned to the fountain.

He scanned the quiet, darkened gardens, hearing a faint rustle in the bushes that might have been a breeze. He smiled, faced the palace again, calculating, and pulled out his communicator.

“Open channel F. Napoleon?”

“What kept you?”

“Yes, well, that’s slavery for you. One’s time is not one’s own.”

“How are you?”

Illya sighed. “Absolutely worn out.”

“Well, you look quite well. Moonlight becomes you.”

~*~*~

If Napoleon expected surprise, he was disappointed. Illya didn’t even look around.

“I hate to tell you this, but moonlight also becomes a reasonably effective spotlight. I saw you some time ago.” He turned around to watch as Napoleon came out of the bushes.

“What are you doing in here?”

Napoleon brushed some errant leaves off. “I got concerned.” He looked his partner up and down, making a point. “They don’t skimp on the wardrobe. What time do you light up?”

Illya said, “The microfilm is in the south minaret.” He indicated the tracer, then the tower. “Shall we?”

As they walked through the gardens, Napoleon said, “They didn’t beat you or anything, did they?”

IIlya’s lip quirked. “Let’s just say I’m beat and leave it at that.”

They found a way into the palace and to the wide circular stair that climbed to the top — they hoped — of the south tower. They exchanged looks and sighs and climbed.

And climbed.

Near the top they heard a sneeze from above. They pulled out their guns, exchanging the bullet clips for mercy bullet clips, and continued.

Two men with swords, semi-dozing, guarded a door. The agents made the semi-doze complete with two sleep darts and went into the dark room.

Illya found a torch on the wall and lit it to reveal a treasure trove. Gold and jewels winked and glittered in the torchlight. On a dais in the center sat a gold crown studded with gems of various colors.

“A bit gaudy,” Napoleon observed. Illya handed him the torch, tucked his gun in his sash, and pulled out the tracer. A careful circling of the room indicated the microfilm was on the dais with the crown. Illya picked up the crown, then the red velvet cushion it had rested on. Nothing.

“Could he have hidden it in the pillow?” Napoleon asked. Illya tore it apart. Nothing.

“In the crown?” Napoleon said — and half a dozen men poured into the room, swords upraised.

Illya dropped the crown back on the dais as the men surrounded them. One of them shouted at the agents in Arabic. Illya said to Napoleon:

“Put your gun away.”

The man said something else. Napoleon thought he heard the word “princess.” He looked down at himself, then at Illya.

The Russian brushed bits of cushion lint off his hands. “Come on.”

Napoleon holstered his weapon and followed his partner out, in the center of a clot of muscled, scimitar-clutching men in turbans.

They went downstairs, then along a number of corridors to a pair of doors, whose guards opened them to allow the agents through. The gang stopped outside.

Illya beckoned Napoleon into the room. Puzzled, Napoleon followed into the chamber, lit by glass-shielded lamps and candles. An ornate gilded table and chairs stood in the middle of the room; couches and gigantic pillows were scattered about; filmy curtains waved in the night breeze at the broad windows.

A girl sat at the table, another girl standing behind her. Both were dark and very pretty, dressed like a lonely man’s harem dream.

Napoleon grinned. Illya sighed.

“What were you doing, my Illya, wandering the palace in the middle of the night?”  the one in the chair asked Illya.

Napoleon stared at his partner. “You two know each other?”

~*~*~

The princess got up and came around the table. She said to Illya:

“You should not wander about the palace at night.”

“Why not?” Illya asked.

“Because—” she hesitated. “You might get lost.” She took his hand in hers. “I would not want anything to happen to you.”

Amazed, Napoleon said, “Would someone mind explaining to me what’s going on?” He bowed slightly to the princess. “Napoleon Solo, at your service, miss..?”

“Napoleon, this is Princess Shalmar of Karameesh,” Illya said, unable to keep the smirk completely off his face. “My new owner.”

Napoleon stared at her, at Illya, at their still-joined hands ... and everything clicked.

“She paid 10,000 _dirhami_ for you?” Napoleon asked.

“And I’m getting your money’s worth,” Illya murmured.

“Why did you not tell me you had a friend in Karameesh?” the princess purred, looking Napoleon up and down and up again. “And such a friend?”

“So, you didn’t tell her about me?” Napoleon said, mock-annoyed.

“I didn’t want to ... what did you call it? Queer the deal,”  Illya said.

“What brings two such handsome men from America to Karameesh?” Shalmar said.

“Ah, we’re on holiday,” Napoleon said. “Particularly one of us, it seems.” Another sidelong glare at his partner, who ignored him.

“Princess?”

The girl who had been silently standing at the table came toward them.

“Yes, Mihirmah?” the princess said.

“Princess, I think —” She stopped herself, looked at the men, leaned close to whisper in the princess’ ear. While she was doing so, Napoleon sidled closer to Illya, said:

“Exactly what kind of slavery have I sold you into here?”

Illya met his partner’s gaze steadily, hiding his satisfaction in seeing those chocolate eyes go a little nuts before Napoleon caught himself.

The American agent groused, “And I was worried you were digging ditches and being beaten with whips.”

“How do you know I wasn’t?” Illya said.

“Mihirmah thinks I should tell you the truth,” Shalmar said, drawing the agents’ attention. “She feels I should trust you.” The princess looked searchingly at them, then focused on Illya, raising his hand to her lips.

“I know the golden one would never harm me,” she murmured, gazing at him. “He is a tender and caring man.” Illya felt his face heat.

“Oh?” Napoleon needled. He was irked, and the more irked at himself for being irked.

“No one who makes love in such a way could ever wish to harm a woman,” she purred.

~*~*~

Napoleon observed his partner’s blush and the very satisfied glow in the woman’s eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“It appears I undercharged you, your highness.”

That brought her focus to him. “But you. Can I trust you?” She looked back at Illya, releasing his hand.

“This man, he is a true friend to you?”

Illya shrugged. “No, but he’ll do until one comes along.”

“Hey!”

“He sold you to Fasi,” Mihirmah put in, eyeing Napoleon resentfully. The American thought both these women had developed rather a possessive streak concerning his partner. That in mind, he glared at Illya.

“What have you been doing all night?”

“It’s a strange country,” Illya replied, wrenching the smile off his face.

Shalmar said, “If you are friends, I will trust you both.”

“We’re friends,” Illya said.

“We used to be,” Napoleon threatened, _sotto voce_.

She took in a slow breath. “Karameesh is a wealthy city, but we have no ... no military might. Mullay Kassim, the desert sheikh, is the most powerful warlord in the land. I am promised to him in marriage. If he knew about you — about us — he would kill you.”

Illya closed his eyes. Napoleon elbowed him. “What goes around comes around, partner.”

“Then why did you ...” He flushed again, and knew it was only because Napoleon was there. “Buy me?”

“Because I heard your voices in the bazaar. I knew you were American. I lived in America when I was a girl, with Mihirmah. We learned English. We loved it there. But I was brought back here to serve Karameesh, and Mihirmah came with me out of loyalty. We both would have preferred to stay.”

Mihirmah nodded.

“Ah,” Napoleon ahhed. “I get the gist. You don’t want to marry Mullay Kassim. You want us to take you back to America.”

Both women beamed. “Yes!” the princess exclaimed. “We wish to be free. I do not wish to be forced to wed a man who loves my wealth more than me.”

“Wealth,” Napoleon echoed. “Like that crown upstairs.”

“It is the crown of the princes of Karameesh. If he marries me, Mullay Kassim will wear that crown.” Her eyes turned cold. “I would rather shove it down his arrogant throat.”

“Tell me,” Illya asked. “Do you know a man called Gaspar?”

She nodded, narrow eyed. “He is Kassim’s lieutenant, but he is not from this land. He is a foreigner, though he speaks our tongue well. I trust him even less than Kassim, for Kassim at least is one of us.”

The agents exchanged a look, getting somewhat less than the current rate.

“And this Mullay Kassim, where is he now?”

“He is here!”

The shout made all four of them start and spin around. A tall man in white, surrounded by easily two dozen bearded swordsmen, strode in from the balcony.

The tall man — Kassim, the agents assumed — swept his cloak over his shoulders and set his fists to his hips.

“And here I find you, princess,” he said coldly, in English. “With strange men — foreigners — in your very chambers in the middle of the night. What treachery is this?”

~*~*~

Shalmar stood straight, eyes flashing defiance. “No treachery, Kassim. I refuse to marry you.”

“What?!”

“I do not love you. I refuse to marry you by force.”

Mihirmah moved closer to the princess, protective.

Kassim roared, “I am Mullay Kassim! You cannot refuse me! Which of these dogs has sought to turn you against me?” He transferred his glare to the UNCLE agents.

To Napoleon he said, “Is it you? Are you the moon-faced son of a one-eyed donkey who has tried to steal what is mine?”

“Ah, no,” Napoleon said peaceably. “It’s just the way I comb my hair.”

“Is it you, then?” Kassim snarled at Illya. “You pale-eyed, white-skinned snake?”

Illya said something in Arabic, a short phrase, well-chilled. Napoleon thought he caught the words “small penis” — He shook his head. Had to be a mistake.

Kassim turned white. “Dog!” he cried, brandishing his curved sword. “I will show my men the color of your liver!”

Napoleon interposed his body between Kassim and Illya, held out one hand and said, “I’ll tell you, sheikh: you’ve seen one liver, you’ve seen them all.”

“Stop this, Kassim,” Shalmar said, moved in front of Napoleon. “They have nothing to do with this. They are nothing to me.”

Sidelong to Illya, Napoleon said, “That’s a blow to your ego.” Illya rolled his eyes.

“I refuse to marry you,” Shalmar said. “I am going to America.”

“What?”

“And my treasure is going with me,” she said defiantly.

Illya sighed. Napoleon said, “That was a tactical error, princess.”

She ignored him, waving a hand dismissively at Kassim. “Take your men and go.”

He grabbed her flailing arm and she cried out, struggling.

Illya stepped forward, took hold of Kassim’s wrist and applied a little of his training. Kassim roared in pain and yanked his arm back; Shalmar stumbled into Napoleon, who moved her aside, sliding his hand into his vest to grasp his gun as Kassim raised his blade over Illya’s head.

“You dare to lay a hand on Mullay Kassim, you dog!” he cried.

Napoleon drew his gun. “I wouldn’t, Kassim,” he said. Kassim’s eyes locked onto the UNCLE special; his face blanched with rage, but he lowered his sword.

“You ... you ... American ... dog!”

“Your vocabulary could use some enhancement,” Napoleon said. “Tell your men to back off.”

Illya drew his own gun to cover the half of the room Napoleon couldn’t.  Kassim’s men hesitated, swords still at the ready.

A small, sunburnt henchman stepped forward into the middle of this standoff, unarmed, hands upraised. He looked hard at the two UNCLE agents.

“Please, my lord,” he then said to Kassim. “Permit me ..?”

Kassim scowled fiercely at the little man, then nodded curtly. “Very well, Gaspar.”

The agents shot sidelong glances at one another. That gave the THRUSH agent time to pull a glass phial from his sleeve and throw it at their feet. It shattered; smoke billowed into their faces, and the lights went out.

~*~*~

Napoleon came to with a king-sized headache, hanging from the side of a camel, jolted and jounced with every step, bound hand and foot and unable to move, unable to see much beyond the netted bag that held him.

“Illya!” He bellowed.

“What?” came the surly response from a camel’s width away.

“Just checking,” Napoleon said, relieved. “You all right?”

“Wonderful,” the Russian groused. “There’s nothing I love more than feeling like a haggis on its way to market.”

“I don’t think we’re going to any market,” Napoleon said, feeling awkwardly about his person. “They got my gun and my communicator.”

“Same here,” his partner called from the other side of the camel’s belly.

Napoleon put his fingers through the netting and pulled the strands apart to peer out. They dangled from the last in a long line of camels, headed by horsemen, and they were surrounded by sand.

A horseman blurred past. The camel stopped; they did, too, a moment later. Napoleon saw a sword flash out — he shouted — the blade sliced through his bag and he hit the ground on his back. He wriggled his way out of the netting; beside him, his partner did the same. Gaspar sat on his horse in front of them, holding a pistol and smiling. The caravan was still moving away.

The agents, still tied at wrists and ankles, struggled to their feet, leaning on one another.

“UNCLE agents,” Gaspar said.

“That haggis situation is looking better all the time,” Napoleon remarked, wavering.

“You’ll be glad to know the crown — and, more importantly, the microfilm — are in safe hands. The ladies ... well, they’re not in safe hands, exactly, but they’re ... in hand.” He chuckled.

“You’re quite a wit,” Napoleon said drily.

“You’re half right,” Illya emended.

The smile vanished. “I’d shoot you both now, but the desert sheikh—” he nodded toward the disappearing line of horses and camels— “prefers that you die slowly. I hope you don’t mind if we just drop you off here.”

“No, this is fine,” Napoleon said. “We’ll walk the last few hundred miles.”

Gaspar saluted them, wheeled his mount and set his heels to the horse’s sides. The animal sprang into a strained gallop, sand flying, and headed for the distant caravan.

~*~*~

Napoleon watched him go. “Well, he’s off my Christmas list.”

Illya grunted. “Help me.” They hopped close together and worked on each other’s knots. The heat soaked into their bodies, melting muscle, thought, and energy.

“All I can say is none of my dalliances has ever gotten us into this much trouble,” Napoleon muttered as they worked. “I guess some of us are just lucky when it comes to ... getting lucky.”

“I wasn’t dallying, Napoleon,” Illya censured him, fingers dragging at the coarse hemp strands. “I was following orders.”

“Yeah, you and Eichmann.” The American yanked ineffectually at the tight coils around his partner’s wrists. “What exactly did Shalmar order you to do?”

“Quit complaining and just undo me, will you?”

Napoleon paused, glanced under his brows at his partner. “Wouldn’t you rather we got out of these ropes first?”

Illya snarled, lifted Napoleon’s hands to his face and latched onto the rope with his teeth, yanking mercilessly this way and that.

“Careful...” Napoleon hissed. “I’m still using these.” He wiggled his fingers.

“Ha!” Illya finally got a loop of rope loosened; he yanked the knots apart.

“Ouch,” Napoleon said as the hemp burned along his wrists.

“Sorry,” Illya said in a patently false tone, flinging the rope aside. “You can get even now.” He held out his hands expectantly.

“Oh, don’t tempt me.” He took hold of the ropes, seeking with chafed fingers for a hold. After a few clumsy tries, Illya said:

“Use your teeth.”

Again, Napoleon gave him a look. That look. Illya felt his face heat. He forced himself to roll his eyes and sigh.

“On the ropes, Napoleon.”

“Spoilsport.” Napoleon used his partner’s technique to work the ropes loose. Then they both freed their feet and started walking.

There seemed no point in doing anything other than following the faint trail left in the shifting sands by Mullay Kassim’s caravan — that was the direction the microfilm and the women had taken.

So they walked. Heads bent under heavy sun, they trudged with aching ankles through the sand. A kind of hypnosis settled over them as they mechanically raised and planted each foot, heat pulsing under their skin, blood boiling in their veins, squinting eyes on the slight hollows left by the caravan.

Three hours later, they were damn near in the water before they realized they’d reached an oasis. They stopped, disbelieving, in the little circle of palm trees that surrounded a tiny oval pond, then fell face first into the tepid pond, feeling their pores soak up the lifegiving liquid. They drank their fill and looked about to find that the trail of Kassim’s caravan paralleled the narrow stream, leading through a gap in two rocky-studded sandy hills.

After resting briefly at the edge of the tiny pond, under the shade of a half-dozen thirsty-looking trees, they started along the stream.

Napoleon was a step behind his partner, stepping carefully on the slick bottom, when Illya slipped. His feet flew out from under him and he landed with a grunt on his back in the water, dangerously near a boulder that rested by the side of the pond.

Napoleon grasped him by his soggy vest and hauled him to his feet, leaning him against the boulder and sliding his fingers behind his head. Illya blinked, shook water from his hair.

“You all right?” Napoleon asked, feeling his partner’s skull for injury. “You didn’t hit your head on the rock?”

Illya shook his head, leaning against the boulder. “No.”

Napoleon smiled briefly. “Lucky for the rock.” He braced himself on the boulder, hands on either side of his partner, and they both caught their breath and dripped for a moment. Then Napoleon focused on his partner.

Illya scowled at him; trouble was clearly brewing in those coffee eyes. “What?”

“So. This princess.”

Up went the eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You ... ah ... spent the night with her.”

“As I am her property, I thought it seemed wise to ... cooperate,” Illya replied, blinking water out of his eyes. Napoleon was very close; Illya could almost taste the sunburnt skin, the faint stubble of beard, the spicy scent, the open shirt angling down over the nicely muscled chest of his .... his damned partner.

“I see.” Napoleon smiled; his teeth were very white against the skin that crinkled around those dark eyes.  “Exactly how much did you ... cooperate?”

Illya blinked again, swallowed, feeling his partner’s gaze caress his mouth, then slide up again. It was suddenly very hot. “As ...as much as necessary.”

“And did you enjoy yourself?” Napoleon said low.

“It was in the line of duty,” Illya replied, pitching his own voice low in faint remprimand.

~*~*~

_He has no idea what it does to me when he does that_ , Napoleon thought. _How badly I want to make him purr that way._

“Touche,” he acknowledged. “But that’s not what I asked you.” There was no safe place for him to rest his eyes, this close. He let his gaze skim the surface of those deep-blue, limpid eyes, the well-shaped lips, the long, strong jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow that, in Illya’s case, was more a 4:15 sort of thing.

“Envious?” Illya asked sourly.

“No,” Napoleon said with perfect honesty. He wasn’t envious; beautiful women were plentiful the world over. He was jealous. Bitingly jealous that this woman, this princess, this stranger, had savored his partner’s charms. Had tasted that luscious mouth, that golden skin, that ... everything, if she had any sense at all. Bitch.  At this moment he was jealous of every single water droplet that tickled its way down his partner’s face and body.

“Well ... it wasn’t exactly ... my usual assignment,” Illya said, and cleared his suddenly dry throat. His partner’s scent filled his head, befuddling as a cloud of incense.

“Apparently you rose to the occasion,” Napoleon said. Illya snorted a soft laugh.

“Sorry. But ... I noticed your owner wasn’t complaining.”

Again the brow. “You aren’t the only man in the world who knows how to make love, Napoleon,” Illya said, meeting his partner’s eyes. Mistake; drinking in that cognac gaze made him instantly drunk.

“I never suggested it,” Napoleon said. “But you did say it wasn’t your usual mission.”

“I just did what you would have done,” Illya needled gently, striving for the distance of humor. His heart danced in his throat, seeking, apparently, an escape via his mouth.

“But you don’t know what I do,” Napoleon murmured, leaning closer.

“I —” Illya cleared his throat, damning himself for giving so much away. “I used my imagination,” he said. He could feel Napoleon’s breath on his face.

“Oh? What did you imagine me doing?” Napoleon asked, raising his head. Not waiting for Illya to answer — possibly not realizing he couldn’t answer — he said: “This?”

And touched his lips to his partner’s right eye, still damp with water from the stream. He felt the closed eyelid tremble as he tasted the moisture on Illya’s eyelashes.

“This?” he said, and repeated the gesture against the other eye.

“Napoleon...” Illya whimpered, a protest canceled due to lack of enthusiasm.

“Maybe this?” Napoleon trailed the faintest of kisses along his partner’s cheekbone, across his chin, to his throat. Illya groaned; the sound vibrated under Napoleon’s suddenly smiling mouth; the American could feel his partner’s pulse pounding, hear him panting as he sampled that golden skin, down to one collarbone, to the notch between as Illya’s head fell back.

Illya tried again to say no, but only the second half of the word came out. His traitor hands, sent out on the mission of pushing his partner away, were clenched in Napoleon’s wet shirt.

Napoleon drew back, throbbing, to see what he had wrought. Illya brought his head down, his eyes vague, bottomless, his gasping mouth rosy, irresistible.

Napoleon leaned in again; with a growl Illya grabbed his head in both hands, snarled, “ _Stoy_.”*

Napoleon’s innards pretzeled — had he made a terrible mistake? Then his partner pulled him into a fierce, hot kiss, mouth and tongue ravishing the American’s, jolting Napoleon down to his soggy toes.

Illya pushed him away, ablaze and appalled, and Napoleon, transfixed, gasped out:

“Jesus. I’m buying you back, whatever the cost.” If it weren’t for the boulder he’d have fallen over. “Jesus.”

“You don’t need to,” Illya breathed, leaning on his partner’s heaving chest. “Don’t you know that?”

Napoleon met his partner’s eyes. “You mean I can have you for free?”

“No,” Illya whispered. “You’ve earned me.”

Napoleon grinned, lightly ran his tongue across his partner’s mouth, sliding it between those lips for a moment, slowly.

Illya drew back, gritting his teeth, said, “We need to get after them.”

Napoleon cursed, extensively, each foul word as earnest as the pounding of his blood in certain insistent portions of his anatomy. He slid his arms around his partner’s still-wet body and kissed him thoroughly, not gently, then backed away, still cursing, trying not to notice as Illya leaned panting against the rock, struggling to regain his own equilibrium.

“You do not play fair, Napoleon,” he gasped, bent almost double. Napoleon forced his eyes away from the all too obvious outlines of his partner’s wet white cotton trousers, cursing again.

“How important is this microfilm?” the American wondered aloud.

Illya cleared his throat. “Do the words ‘world peace’ ring a bell?”

“You’re going to have to come up with a better motivator than that,” Napoleon threatened. Illya pushed off the rock and started along the stream.

“Let’s go.”

They plodded along the creek, both cursing under their breath in various tongues.

~*~*~

Mullay Kassim’s camp was a collection of large and colorful tents in a little hollow of sand framed by a few boulders and date trees. The men’s horses were corralled to one side. Guards patrolled at the compass points, rifles slung.

“Okay,” Napoleon said, rubbing his hands together. “Here’s what we do, see? We storm the place, see? Rescue the girls, collect the microfilm, grab some horses,  make like a banana and split to Marrakesh.”

Napoleon got the brow.

“So, Don Quixote,” Illya said, dry as a good burgundy. “What have you done with my partner?”

Napoleon grabbed his sleeve. “Let’s get tilting, Sancho.”

They crept toward the horses, tied to a long rope strung between two palm trees.

~*~*~

Eyes on the guards, they slithered amongst the horses to the side of the largest tent, crouching against it. Music, shouts and laughter carried to them from inside the tent.

Flat on his belly, Napoleon lifted the bottom of the tent to peer inside. He saw carpet and a brass bowl. Lifting the cloth a little higher, he glimpsed a table laden with food and wine. Men came and went, their attention fully on their food. Perfect. He could slip in underneath it without being seen, if he was lucky. And if he was anything, he was that.

“You stay out here,” he said, drawing his feet under him to slide inside.

“Why?”

“Those baby blues of yours are a dead giveaway.”

“How many words of Arabic do you speak again?” Illya replied coolly, lifting the bottom of the tent. “Three? Or was it four?”

“So I won’t talk. Stay here.”

Napoleon rolled under the table and upright beside it in one admirably fluid motion. Illya slid under the side of the tent and crouched behind a big brass censer (Napoleon was accustomed to his only half-following orders), from which vantage he watched Napoleon dust off his clothes and move casually into the thick of things.

~*~*~

The atmosphere was definitely festive. Someone somewhere was strangling a trio of geese; Napoleon supposed that was meant to be music. He wandered the perimeter of the tent, ignored but for occasional good-natured nods, amongst tables of food and drink and men chatting, smoking and cleaning their WWII-era guns. The tent was huge. In a circle around the center, Kassim and his men sat eating, drinking, carousing and watching two men juggle clubs in the middle. Napoleon spotted Gaspar to Kassim’s right. Shalmar and Mihirmah sat close to one another, a little huddled, to Kassim’s left. Kassim wore the crown of Karameesh; he looked like a little boy wearing his father’s best tie. Napoleon’s guess was that Gaspar had already removed the microfilm; he was probably waiting until nightfall to depart with it for THRUSH offices unknown.

Napoleon walked around the back of the circle, dodging through the raucous crowd until he was behind Gaspar, far enough back that his presence wouldn’t be sensed. There he accepted a cup of something and considered his options.

As he examined the THRUSH agent, Gaspar’s hand slid to the leather pouch he had slung about his waist. His fingers dipped inside, came out empty. Napoleon grinned.

_A little anxious, are we, my fine feathered fiend?_

He sought about for a knife, spotting one on a small table near a group of men who sat cross-legged around a brazier, smoking, and occasionally turning kebabs of shriveled, spicy-scented meat. He sidled over to table, scanning the tent, and reached for the handle.

A man shouted and grabbed his wrist. He wrenched himself backward but the man didn’t let go, shouting, leaning into his face, scowling, gesturing at the knife. His gist was plain, but Napoleon groped in vain for appropriate words of apology. The men on the floor rose, setting their guns aside, adding their voices to their comrade’s as they got interested in the altercation. Napoleon tried bowing and repeating one word he knew — _ahsef_ (sorry) — but it didn’t appease the men.

Kassim and Gaspar both turned in their direction, their attention drawn by the racket.

Oh boy. Get out of this one.

“Mullay Kassim!”

Napoleon, the man holding his arm — everyone — froze.

The desert sheikh turned back to the center of the room. In English, a voice Napoleon knew all too well declaimed:

“Mullay Kassim is a coward who kidnaps women and leaves men to die in the desert. He is too craven to fight honorably for what he wants.”

Forgotten by everyone, Napoleon pulled himself free and crept around to where he could see.

His partner stood in the middle of the tent, arms akimbo. Shalmar and Mihirmah stared in horror; Gaspar in disbelief, the rest of the men in anger.

Kassim, eyes bulging, rose like lava from a volcano.

“You ...”

_Dog_ , Napoleon thought.

“... dog!”

“Talk is cheap, Kassim,” Illya said. “You left me in the desert to die because you were too cowardly to try to kill me yourself. Now I’m here.”

“Men!” Kassim shouted, sweeping his arm out. “Take him!”

A dozen of his men stood up, but Illya said loudly:

“Still too cowardly to fight me man to man?”

Kassim waved his hand again, shouted a word. The men stopped.

“You hide like a woman behind your men and their guns,” Illya said. Napoleon winced. Don’t push it.

“You and your thugs took the princess Shalmar against her will. I am willing to fight you for her.”

The murmuring of Kassim’s men rose.

“Are you brave enough to fight for what you want, Kassim?” Illya concluded.

Unwatched, Napoleon slipped back to the table and grabbed the knife that still lay there; the brazier, now untended as all the men watched the show, gave him an idea. He circled around until he was behind Shalmar, then touched her shoulder. She glanced at him, startled.

“Be ready,” he said. She nodded, poked Mihirmah in the arm as Napoleon moved back toward Gaspar. He spotted the exit as he was weaving through the men. If he could manage a distraction to distract from Illya’s ... distraction ... but he had to get the microfilm first.

He stopped behind Gaspar, palmed the knife, reached out and delicately began to saw through the leather strap.

A shout went up and he looked past Gaspar’s shoulder to see Kassim step out to confront Illya, carrying two swords. He handed one to the agent, who took it, testing it for heft and balance. Kassim’s men cheered as the sheikh backed away, striking an en garde.

Illya followed suit, and with no further preliminaries they had at each other.

Napoleon let his eyes dart back and forth between the two men dancing back and forth and his work on the leather strap. The knife was sharp; in a few moments he had one strap severed. He looked up.

Illya parried a thrust toward his ribs, feinted and drove in low under Kassim’s swordarm. Kassim clumsily turned the thrust with a twist of his wrist, but he was off balance. Illya’s blade snapped up and tore a path of red across the sheikh’s face. He shouted in anger and pain and his men roared in disapproval, but Illya danced out of the way, catching his breath while Kassim wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and looked at the blood there. His eyes were black with murder when he lunged at Illya.

Napoleon started sawing at the other strap, careful to not pull on the bag. Someone laid hold of his free arm and he stopped cutting, looking about with an innocent expression.

Shalmar and Mihirmah stood close to him, both wide-eyed with fear.

“Wait,” he whispered, and continued sawing.

Another roar rose just as he cut through. Gaspar jumped to his feet and Napoleon grabbed the bag, shoving it into his belt and backing away.

Illya had stumbled and was on one knee. Kassim lunged at him, sloppy with anger, and Illya turned the blade aside. It sank deep into the carpet laid atop the sand and Illya grabbed Kassim’s wrist with his free hand, sweeping his leg high in a kick that caught the sheikh on the shoulder and knocked him rolling. Illya jumped to his feet. Kassim did the same, puffing, looking around wild-eyed for his blade. When he saw it sticking out of the carpet he straightened, and some of his men guffawed.

Napoleon went to the brazier, turned his back on the crowd, and opened the leather pouch. He pulled out a tiny sealed metal container — the microfilm — tucked it safely away and tipped the brazier over against the wall of the tent. The cloth turned black quickly; tiny flames grew, climbing up the tent sides.

He went to Shalmar. “Yell ‘fire.’”

She looked at him, shouted, “Fire!”

A few people close by looked at her oddly.

Napoleon sighed. “Not in English.”

“Oh.” She drew in a deep breath as the flames crawled higher. “ _Narr! Narr_!”

Heads jerked their way. The cry was taken up by others. Napoleon grabbed each girl by the arm and ran for the exit.

They circled around the side, first among many fleeing the rapidly engulfed tent, and headed for the horses. They untied four animals and Napoleon told the girls to mount up. “If anyone so much as looks this way,” he shouted over the various other noises and cries as people scattered away from the fire, “Go.”

He held his own horse and another, watching the people fleeing, watching for a distinctive blond head as the flames crackled and the tent began to collapse in on itself.

“Come on, Illya, come on, damn it...” The horses yanked on the reins, anxious to get away from the smoke and the panic. He held tighter, weighing whether to go back in. He was one nerve impulse away from dropping the reins and going back when a small figure darted out of the flaming, smoking tent and headed toward him.

“What are you waiting for?” Illya said, panting, as Napoleon threw him the reins, “an engraved invitation to leave?”

“Go!” Napoleon shouted at the girls, swinging aboard his own mount. The four of them set their heels to the horses, hearing sporadic shouts and gunfire that didn’t stand a chance of stopping them.

~*~*~

Napoleon waited at the railing of the Star of Cape Town II, en route from Casablanca to New York. Night fell gently on the calm seas, turning the cloudy skies purple and red.

Napoleon felt his partner approach and stand beside him at the railing. He didn’t turn, but said:

“So did you explain things to Shalmar, or do I get to be best man at the wedding?”

“I think I made my position clear,” Illya said. “They’re both grateful to be going to the U.S. Did you speak to Mr. Waverly?”

Napoleon nodded, leaning on the rail. “He gave us the usual grudging verbal pat on the back and said to take a few days off.”

“How generous,” Illya said drily, “since we’ll be on this tub for at least another week.” He looked Napoleon up and down, measuringly.

“What?”

Illya shook his head. “I don’t know. I think I liked you better in the ... native garb. It suited you.” Napoleon caught on, as Illya grinned. “You were a —”

“Say it and I’ll kill you,” the American growled. “Besides, you earned the wolf epithet this time, not me. I’m surprised Shalmar’s so willing to give you up.”

“I never said she was willing,” Illya said.

“On that note ...” Napoleon cleared his throat. No point in pretending he wasn’t nervous; Illya would know. “You said you’d made your position clear to the princess.”

The Russian hmmed assent.

“And what is that position, exactly?”

Illya leaned his elbows on the rail, shoulder to shoulder with his partner. “Right here.”

Puzzled, Napoleon shot his partner a sidelong glance. “On a beat-up tramp steamer in the middle of the Atlantic?”

“ _Durak_...”** Illya muttered. “Not right here. Right here.”

Napoleon saw that the Russian was fighting a grin — and the light went on.

“Oh.” He let his own grin out without a struggle.

They stood in companionable silence for a while, as the sun sank and possibilities arose.

“At least a week,” Napoleon mused. “That’s a long time to be at sea with nothing to do.” He sensed rather than saw Illya’s faint smile.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with some way to occupy your time.”

_And yours, my friend_ , Napoleon thought. _And yours._

The End

 

 

_* “Stop.”_

_** “Idiot.”_

 


End file.
